


Angel Enchanted

by water_off_of_ducks



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ella Enchanted Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), F/M, Forgive Me, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), What The Hell Have I Done, agnes nutter is a gnome, aziraphale has to be obedient, but crowley won't stop swearing, but he's a bastard underneath, but is also aziraphale's father, gabriel SUCKS, god is aziraphale's mother, idk - Freeform, no beta we saunter vaguely downwards like Crowley, this could be general audiences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/water_off_of_ducks/pseuds/water_off_of_ducks
Summary: Aziraphale of Fell is, as everyone is so eager to tell him, an angel. So obedient and thoughtful, always willing to lend a hand to anyone who asks. Or demands, rather. But the point still stands. Aziraphale is a delight to be around. Aziraphale hates this about himself. He would much rather be selfish and awful, but he doesn't have a choice. That bumbling fool of a fairy, Newton, saw to that.Prince Anthony J. Crowley is absolutely done with everyone. He is surrounded by simpering, grovelling, obsequious bastards who just want power. They do whatever he asks them to do, without really listening to him. He is a walking meal ticket in the eyes of his so-called friends, and he hates it.Then Crowley meets Aziraphale, who does whatever is demanded of him, but with an angry glint in his eyes. Aziraphale, who seems like he would kill you, if he could do so without breaking the rules of polite society. Aziraphale, who absolutely does not hesitate to be a bit of a bastard, in the best way possible. Aziraphale, who is furious about something, but won't say what it is. Aziraphale, who is a bit of a mystery.ORI was rereading Ella Enchanted and went "wait a moment, why is this literally Good Omens though."
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 70





	1. Newt Messes Things Up

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a really weird story I accidentally created. this is also my first fic so let me know if there's something I'm doing wrong? idk. i really hope someone likes this because it has been a blast to work on.
> 
> i'm not entirely done working out the plot (even though i literally have a plot to follow lol) so i might change some of the tags as we go along.
> 
> i'm going to try to update it once a week or something but we'll see what happens as i write it.

Aziraphale of Fell really wished he could muster the energy to hate Newton more. The fairy was the cause of so much of Aziraphale’s suffering that it seemed logical for Aziraphale to loathe him. Unfortunately, Newton Pulsifer was also notoriously bumbling and accident prone, so there was no telling if he had even intended to curse Aziraphale. It seemed likely that it had been a complete mistake. Aziraphale was determined to believe the best of everyone, so he restrained his anger by telling himself it had been a mistake on Newton’s part, and that he would set it to rights if they ever met again.

Regardless of how generously Aziraphale was determined to treat Newton, he still felt some anger at his predicament. He was cursed, for heaven’s sake. Why couldn’t Newton have just left him alone?

Every time Tracy told him the story, he felt a twinge of fury. He had been an infant! He hadn’t done anything. But then Newton had come and ruined his life.

———————————————————————

It happened when he was just a few months old. His mother had been in the kitchen with Tracy, talking about the herbs in the kitchen garden. Tracy was the cook, though she was more of a friend and aunt to Aziraphale as he grew. The infant Aziraphale lay in a crib, sleeping soundly by the fire.

“I’ve always wondered what would happen if you froze witch hazel,” Tracy was saying, stirring some condensed milk into her tea. She insisted it was good for digestion. “Would that mitigate its anti-inflammatory properties?”

Aziraphale’s mother yawned and sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Oh dearie, you must be tired,” Tracy tutted. “Let me make you a sleeping draught. I can watch the baby for a few hours. Don’t you worry about us. He’s such a sweet child, I can’t imagine anything going wrong.”

Just as Aziraphale’s mother nodded her assent, there was the noise of a small explosion, and suddenly there was someone else in the kitchen.

The figure that materialized was gangly and tall, with glasses shoved up on his nose. He tripped, nearly fell, and caught himself on the edge of Aziraphale’s crib.

“Is this Tadfield?” he asked, looking around with gathering anxiety.

“No, love, this is London. You’re in the wrong kingdom,” Tracy said. She winced in sympathy.

The gangly man looked absolutely distraught. He looked around the kitchen, but his gaze was vaguely unfocused. “Are you sure this isn't Tadfield? I’m supposed to be in Tadfield.”

Tracy put her hands on her hips. She cut a formidable figure in her motley assortment of fabrics and makeup, her scowl making the man shuffle further into the corner. “Do you really think I don’t know what kingdom my own kitchen is in?”

“No, of course not, only it would be very nice if this were Tadfeild, and you were just playing an elaborate joke on me? In fact, I wouldn’t be angry at all, I would be so happy,” the man blathered.

“Dearie,” Tracy said, “why don’t you sit down. I can make you a nice cup of tea, and you can tell me who you are, and why you need to be in Tadfield so badly.”

The man stared at a vacant chair in apparent fear. Tracy made a patting gesture to reassure him. “Come, you can sit here, next to Lady.”

The man did, with trepidation, as though he expected the chair to break underneath his gangly frame. Tracy handed him a cup of tea. “Now tell us your name, dearie.”

He took a sip of the tea, and didn’t comment on the condensed milk. Perhaps he was smarter than he looked. “I’m Newton. Newt. Newton Pulsifer.”

Aziraphale’s mother spoke. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Newt.” Her voice was low and smooth, resonating in the small space, and Newt relaxed to hear the sincerity in it.

He continued with his explanation. “I’m a fairy, only I’m not a very good one. I was supposed to go to Tadfield and turn Dick Turpin into a carriage, but I must have gotten the spells all muddled.”

Tracy looked bemused. “Who is Dick Turpin?” She was trying to picture what a man who longed to become a form of transportation might look like.

“A donkey,” Newt said, miserably.

Tracy chuckled into her tea. Aziraphale’s mother spoke. “I’m sure that if Dick Turpin really needed to go somewhere, he would be able to go as a donkey. It’s not the end of the world, Newt. You’ll get to Tadfield soon, I’m sure. Have faith.”

Newt seemed to relax a little more at her words, and the hand that was holding his tea cup seemed like it was less likely to slosh tea into his lap with incessant quivering. “Thank you, thank you. You’re right. I can do this.” His face was etched with some sort of grim determination, as though he had been asked to assist in the preventing of Armageddon.

“Of course you can, dearie,” Tracy encouraged. “But why not stay for some biscuits first?”

“Oh, I couldn’t…” Newt looked conflicted. “You’ve already been more than generous, seeing as I popped into your kitchen with no warning. Some people would have kicked me out with a broom.” The dark look he gave accompanying these words made it clear he was speaking from personal experience.

“It was no trouble, none at all,” Tracy assured him. “Besides, you could have done much worse with your materialization. You could have ended up in the fire, or worse, woken the baby!”

“The baby!” Newt shrieked, eyes blowing wide. He looked at Aziraphale’s crib as though he hadn’t realized that it housed an infant, even though he had been leaning over said infant mere moments before.

The shriek woke Aziraphale, who began to cry. Tracy scooped him up, and started cooing at him to quiet him. Newt looked horrified and apologetic at the sight of the unhappy child. Unhappiness really didn’t suit Aziraphale’s cherubic features.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! It just— well— I didn’t realize there was a baby and it startled me!” Newt set down his teacup in order to wring his hands nervously.

“Don’t fuss, dearie,” Tracy said, although it was unclear if she was talking to Newt or Aziraphale. They were both in need of some soothing.

“I really am terribly sorry,” Newt continued. “I just can’t seem to do anything right. At this point I may as well become a witch-hunter, for all the good I’m doing.” The thought of an accident-prone fairy joining the squad of soldiers which hunted down rogue magic users amused Tracy, but she refrained from laughing.

Aziraphale’s mother spoke. “Would you like to hold Aziraphale?” she asked.

Newt’s eyes went comically wide. “Me? Hold a baby? I’d break it!”

“Hardly,” Tracy chuckled. “He may be a wee lad, but he’s a hearty wee lad. He could snap your finger off if he got angry.”

Somehow, this didn’t seem to relax Newt.

“Oh, come on,” Tracy goaded. “Just hold the baby for a moment, and then you can be on your way.”

Newt caved, as people often did when faced with Madame Tracy. He tentatively stretched out his arms, and a squirming Aziraphale was placed in them. The baby’s cheeks were red, but Tracy had calmed him enough that he was no longer crying.

Newt held the baby as though he were something rigid but breakable, like a fine china teapot, or perhaps an elaborate snuffbox. Aziraphale did not like this, and reached up to snatch Newt’s glasses from his nose. He gurgled happily as he pulled them off, and chortled at the noise of distress that Newt made.

Apparently, despite being a fairy, Newt was practically blind without his glasses. He tried to snatch them back, but managed only to nearly drop the baby and the glasses. He fumbled for a moment, seeming to panic at the idea of losing the baby. He managed to hold on, but Aziraphale was so jostled he began to cry again. Newt looked thoroughly alarmed.

“Please stop crying,” he said. Aziraphale ignored him. “Stop crying,” he murmured, under his breath. Aziraphale stopped. Newt looked relieved, but the expression was quickly chased off his face by one of utter panic.

He shoved Aziraphale back into Tracy’s arms, stuck his glasses back on his face, and began to fade from existence, all the while muttering “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

That was twenty years ago. Aziraphale had lived with Newt’s panicked mistake for twenty years.

———————————————————————

Of course, Tracy didn’t initially realize what it was that made Newt panic so. Babies cry abruptly, without reason or cause, and they stop crying on the slightest whim. She saw no reason to be concerned. In fact, she had all but forgotten about the panicked fairy in her kitchen, at least until the afternoon of Aziraphale’s fifth birthday.

One of Aziraphale’s favorite things in the world was cake. Even at the tender age of five, he loved it with a passion that most people do not feel for their spouses. Tracy always said that if Aziraphale was going to love, he was going to do a damn good job of it, and that was definitely true of his feelings for food.

He had spent the morning watching Tracy bake the cake. This was interesting for Aziraphale for two reasons. The first was that he got to watch food appear right before his very eyes, which was indubitably a miracle. The second was that Tracy would periodically let him taste little scraps of things, although this was always at wildly unpredictable moments in the cooking process. He never knew when he might be handed a spoon of soup or a crumb of bread to sample. It was simply ineffable.

After Tracy pulled the cake out of the oven, Aziraphale watched her frost it with eager eyes. He let himself be dragged from the kitchen by Lesley, the manservant, only long enough to put on a blue waistcoat and creamy bow tie. Maud helped him collect some flowers for the table, and told him he looked like a little cherub, with a halo of fluffy white curls. Then he hurried back to the kitchen, just in time for Tracy to carry the cake out to the table.

He and his mother and Tracy and Maud and Lesley all sat at the table. If Aziraphale’s father, Gabriel, had been there. Tracy, Maud, and Lesley would have been excluded. Gabriel was a stickler for decorum and proper respect for status. But Gabriel wasn’t there. He was rarely there, always out trading in order to get richer and more powerful. Which was fine with Aziraphale. His birthdays were more fun without his father there.

For one thing, no one told him that one slice of cake was quite enough. Tracy baked heavenly food, and Aziraphale intended to appreciate it. He finished his first slice, and sent Tracy a pleading look.

She chuckled. “Aww, go on. Keep eating cake, Aziraphale.”

And so Aziraphale did. The second slice was as good as the fist. The cake itself was light and airy, with a delicate raspberry mousse in the center. It was coated in a delicious ganache, and Aziraphale licked his fingers eagerly when they got covered in chocolate.

He enjoyed the third slice, too, though he could feel himself starting to get full. That was okay, he decided. His mother was smiling at him as though he had done something wonderful, and all he was doing was eating cake. It made him feel good. Someday, he resolved to do something to earn that smile.

Aziraphale didn’t understand why he cut himself a fourth slice of cake. No one protested, excluding the small voice inside his head that asked him what he was doing. But he had to do it. He ate the slice of cake, but it didn’t taste good in his mouth. It felt cloying and overwhelmingly sweet. He ate slowly, without the usual glimmer of joy in his eyes.

His mother noticed his lack of enthusiasm. “Are you getting full?” she asked.

Aziraphale nodded miserably, as he cut himself another slice.

This alarmed Tracy. “Dearie,” she said. “You know you don’t have to eat more, if you don’t want to, right? I won’t be offended. I know how delicious my cake is, even if you hate it.”

Aziraphale didn’t smile at her joke. He spoke around a mouthful of cake. “I don’t hate it, Tracy. I know I don’t have to eat more.” Which was both true, and false. He did know that he ought to stop when he wanted to, but he couldn’t. His hand brought his fork to his mouth without his permission. He reached unhappily for another slice.

Now Tracy was well and truly worried. She sent Aziraphale’s mother a look. Aziraphale’s mother spoke again. “Aziraphale, angel, stop eating.”

And Aziraphale did. Instantly. His fork was set down, his plate pushed away from him. His face was etched with such relief that Lesley and Maud found themselves pitying the young master.

That was the day that Aziraphale’s mother and Tracy realized that Aziraphale was cursed. He had to follow orders. He had to be obedient. They tried to explain to him, then and there, over the the remnants of his fifth birthday party, just what it was that made him eat when he didn’t want to. They tried to explain that this curse meant he might have to do many things he didn’t want to.

———————————————————————

Aziraphale didn’t understand, not just then. But as the years went by, and he lived with Newt’s mistake, he learned the full weight of his curse. If Lesley told him to be sure to scrub behind his ears when he bathed, he would have to set down whatever he was doing and scrub right away. If Maud recommended a book, and told him to “read it, and then tell me what you think,” he would be unable to do anything but read until he had finished the book and shared his opinion.

Aziraphale’s mother reminded Maud and Lesley not to use orders, to phrase things as requests. Aziraphale was free to grant or deny requests. But sometimes they slipped up, and Aziraphale felt the tendrils of the curse urging him towards whatever he had been instructed to do.

———————————————————————

The worst part, he decided at a young age, was idioms. When he was thirteen, he spent a month writing a play. It was very clever, his mother told him. It was all about a young boy who was neither good nor evil, but merely human, and consequently saves the world. He decided that he would put on a production of his play. He roped Maud and Tracy into the acting (Lesley had pleaded a sore throat) and they prepared for opening night with gusto. Everything was set for a spectacular evening.

Unfortunately, Maud forgot herself in the excitement, and told Aziraphale to “break a leg.”

They were barely a minute into the production when Aziraphale tripped over the bag of flour that was standing in for a dog, and plummeted to the ground. His leg was broken. The play was called off.

Aziraphale cried into his mother’s shoulder that evening. The full weight of his curse felt heavy on his shoulders. He could not be who he wanted to be. He could not do what he wanted to do with his life. At any moment, someone could demand he do something evil, or immoral, and he would have to obey. He would have to do it. At any moment, someone could tell him to shoot a bird from the sky and pluck all of its feathers from its wings. At any moment, someone could demand Aziraphale step into a roaring fire, or stay at the bottom of a pool until he drowned, and he would do it. He would do it with a smile on his face, if he was ordered to.

Aziraphale’s mother let him cry, held him and rubbed warm circles into his back. She assured him everything would work out the way it was meant to. He didn’t have to see the plan in order for it to exist.

“Angel,” (she always called him that, because he was her angel) “you have a fairy godmother. I have talked to her about your curse. She said that it can be reversed, if the fairy Newton is willing.” Aziraphale’s mother did not mention the fact that is was more a question of Newt’s ability than his willingness. “Or perhaps you can even break it yourself.”

———————————————————————

From that day forward, Aziraphale had a mission. Break the curse. Break it so that he could be his own person, free from the shadow of fear. Break it so that he could choose to be good and pure, and no one would be able to take that away from him.

And so he set about ignoring commands. Or trying to. When Tracy told him not to stay up all night reading, he would stay lying down all night reading. When she told him not to spend hours in the sun, he would spend fifty-nine minutes in the sun before leaping into the shade. He became, in short, incredibly pedantic. Tracy often joked he would make an excellent lawyer, if not for the small fact that his opposition could order him to lose his case.

———————————————————————

One hot summer day, Aziraphale was standing utterly upright in the shallow part of a lake near his home. A local boy named Warlock saw him, and asked him what he was doing.

“I am standing here in this water,” Aziraphale responded, primly. Or as primly as one could be, wearing nothing but underwear.

“Why?”

“To cool off.”

“Why not go swimming?”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t know how?”

“I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale retorted. “I said I can’t. Tracy told me not to.”

“But you’re basically swimming,” Warlock pointed out. “You may as well just start kicking around at this point.”

“I can’t. I always follow orders,” Aziraphale explained. He sounded haughty, he knew, but he didn’t care. The local children had long since decided he was too prim to be bothered with. He much preferred them thinking that than knowing he was the helpless victim of a horrible curse.

“Well. No one ever orders me around,” Warlock said, kicking off his shoes and shorts and wading into the water. He threw his shirt over his head, and, as if to prove his point, it landed in a careless pile next to Aziraphale’s neatly folded stack of clothes.

“That’s not true,” Aziraphale countered. “I’m sure you just don’t notice.”

“Nope. No one would dare,” Warlock informed him.

“But I’m sure they do. I bet you just don’t notice. Doesn’t your mom say things like ‘Go to bed now,’ or ‘Put on your jacket’ to you?”

“Well, of course she does. But those aren’t really orders. You can ignore them, if you want to.”

Aziraphale decided he did not like Warlock. Whatever the other boy said, he said it slowly, as though it were something obvious, and Aziraphale was merely failing to pick up on it. Aziraphale did not like being made to feel dumb. “I can’t ignore those orders,” Aziraphale said. “I’m cursed.”

Warlock was impressed. He wanted to hear everything, and for a while, Aziraphale felt good about his admission. He was interesting now.

But then Warlock started ordering him about. “Do a magic trick!” he demanded.

“I don’t know any,” Aziraphale tried to explain. He could feel his fingers itching to obey, and he curled them more tightly against his thighs.

“Don’t care. Do one. Make a coin appear, or something.”

Aziraphale knew he would have to obey, but he was determined to do it on his own terms. Slowly, slowly, he walked from the water. He carefully patted his hands dry on a leaf, and then rifled through one of his pockets, searching for a coin. He found one, and slowly returned to the water. Each step towards Warlock lessened the pressure in his fingers.

At last, he reached the other boy. The coin inexpertly hidden between his fingers, he raised his hand to Warlock’s ear. He pretended to pull the coin from it.

“There. Are you happy?” Aziraphale did not bother to keep the bitterness from his voice. Magic tricks were demeaning, as though he were some sort of performing circus animal.

“No! That sucked! Give me the coin.”

Aziraphale fought with himself for a moment, but handed to coin over to Warlock, displeasure clearly written across his features. Warlock seemed not to care. He turned the newly acquired gold over in his hands, contemplating its shine.

“You know,” Warlock said, “I thought a curse would make a person interesting. But you’re boring. I bet you’re not even cursed, and you just want an excuse for being a pushover.”

Aziraphale breathed very slowly in and out. Then he left the water again. He began to get dressed, ignoring the way the water on his skin soaked through his fine clothing. He would apologize to Maud later. He retied his bow tie, then hesitated. After a second’s pause, he rolled up his pants, waded back into the water, and punched Warlock soundly on the nose.

He left the other boy spluttering, and made his way home primly.

———————————————————————

When Aziraphale’s mother asked him what he had spent his day doing, he tried to avoid mentioning the incident with Warlock. But then she gave him that look, which was more potent than any order, and he caved. He told her everything.

When she heard about Warlock, she did not scold him for his violence. He knew she disapproved of such things, but he also knew that she understood what it was to be unable to control your own life, your own destiny. How else had she ended up married to his father?

No, instead of scolding, she issued one of her rare commands. “Never tell anyone of your curse, Angel. They will only use it to hurt you.”

Aziraphale did not protest, did not ask her to rescind her order. He agreed. He would be ruled by her wisdom whenever she saw fit to give it.

If only he had known then that she wouldn’t be around to give it that much longer.

———————————————————————

As Aziraphale neared the age of twenty, an illness swept through London. It found its way into many homes, and Aziraphale’s was no exception. He and his mother and Maud and Lesley all fell ill. Tracy was alright, but she seemed never to get sick. It was the condensed milk, she assured them. Aziraphale was dubious, but grateful that there was someone who could take care of the sick.

She made her special curing soup, which tasted inexplicably of perfume. She assured him that was because it had unicorn hair in it, the secret ingredient that would make them all well.

She brought two bowls of the soup into his mother’s room. Aziraphale often slept on the couch there, because his own room was so full of books there was hardly room for him. He only really used his own bed when Gabriel was not away.

Aziraphale drank his soup, grateful that he could hardly taste anything. The sweetness of the soup was often jarring. Tracy assured him that she had already brought some to Lesley and Maud, and that they were doing much better.

The Tracy turned to Aziraphale’s mother, and the two seemed to have a conversation with their eyes that Aziraphale could not follow. Tracy seemed to plead with his mother, but he could not tell why. His mother shook her head, and smiled wanly. Tracy nodded, and when she turned back to Aziraphale, her face was set.

“Right. Well, dearie, you should get some rest. I’m sure you’ll feel right as rain when you wake up.”

And so Aziraphale laid back on the couch, and let his eyelids flutter closed. The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was his mother’s bowl of soup, sitting on the dresser, untouched.

———————————————————————

When he woke, he did feel much better. In fact, he thought he could get up, read a book, visit Tracy in the kitchen.

His mother, though, was much, much worse.

There was a doctor, hovering over her, feeling her forehead and frowning. She looked pale, and her breaths were uneven and ragged.

Aziraphale hated to see her like that. She supposed to be vibrant and alive, smiling at him with that gentle twinkle that was uniquely hers. But when her eyes did open, they did not see Aziraphale. They saw something distant and captivating. Her face was neither pleased nor displeased as she watched those phantom images, those ghosts of whatever her mind believed to be in front of her. She looked tired.

Aziraphale left the room in a hurry.

———————————————————————

He went outside, to the castle of the old king of London. It was abandoned now, since Ruler Beelzebub had taken the throne, but its garden still thrived. He went to the grove of apple trees. It was his favorite place. He loved those apple trees. When he was younger, Tracy told him they had been planted by fairies, and that their fruit would only truly ripen on autumn days when the moon was full. She told him that then, the fruit was sweeter than anything else in the world.

She told him that the trees could grant wishes.

And so Aziraphale knelt before the oldest tree in the grove. It was spring now, and there were no apples on the branches, but there were delicate blossoms lacing the tree. He imagined they were fairies, holding court above him.

“Please,” he murmured to his imagined audience, “let Mother get well soon. I can’t bear to see her face so empty. Please let her smile again soon.”

He did not ask the fairies to spare his mother’s life. He did not think he needed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it had occurred to me that i am about to kill god. i am mostly concerned by my lack of concern. anywhomst.
> 
> thank you soooooo much for reading this. please comment and let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestions let me know.
> 
> also, i just want to say that whoever is reading this is an absolutely epic person and you should probably go drink some water


	2. Gabriel Sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's mother's funeral. Gabriel does what he does best: being an asshole. We meet the dashing but awkward Prince Crowley. Aziraphale really needs a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I had a burst of writing energy, and I produced this. it was a bit strange to write about god being dead, but I gave it a go.

“She was a truly good woman. She maintained the decorum and quality of our society, upheld all of our highest morals. She was someone to aspire to emulate. She will be sorely missed by all who knew her, and mourned by all who benefited from her stringent conscience.” The Metatron’s voice felt stale in Aziraphale’s ears. He was well suited to declaim dry speeches, but this speech ought not to be dry. Aziraphale’s mother was dead. She lay before him in a coffin, eyes forever closed on the world she loved.

The Metatron continued to speak. He talked of Aziraphale’s mother’s upright countenance, her measured grace. Aziraphale thought that his mother was nothing like the person the Metatron described. She had been kind. She had been gentle. She had been loving. She had not been strictly moral, or harshly good. The woman the Metratron described was foreign to Aziraphale.

The Metratron’s speech changed direction, and he began to speak of Aziraphale’s mother’s faithful service to her country, her tireless devotion to the crown. Aziraphale stopped listening. He thought instead of Gabriel’s heavy hand on his shoulder. Father’s hand, he reminded himself. Gabriel was his father. Gabriel was not a stranger. Gabriel had a right to stand near to the casket of the woman he had married. He had a right to stand next to his son.

Aziraphale’s hands curled into fists at the thought. He was no son to Gabriel, regardless of what the older man thought. Aziraphale had no father, as far as he was concerned. His mother had been all he had. And she was gone.

If the circumstances had been reversed, and Gabriel lay before him in the coffin, with his mother by his side to comfort, Aziraphale was convinced he would have felt nothing. This man was a loud, brash alien, whose hand gripped his shoulder with uncomfortable strength. Aziraphale writhed a little, but the grip only increased.

Aziraphale was sure that Gabriel wanted to put on a good show of fatherly affection. Many courtiers had come to the funeral, and it wouldn’t do any favors to the family to be thought estranged. This only made Aziraphale want to escape his grip all the more.

Aziraphale’s focus shifted to the casket. He resolutely avoided looking at his mother’s face. Instead, his gaze traced the carvings on the surface of the wood. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, he acknowledged. Gabriel had acquired it. Aziraphale was quite convinced that it was the only good thing the man had ever done for his wife.

The surface was covered in intricate images of flowers and trees, writhing and wrapping around one another, growing towards some distant sun. Aziraphale tried not to imagine those flowers buried under dry, cold earth. They belonged on the surface, blooming and smiling in the free air. His mother, too. She ought to be standing beside him, toes burrowed in the mossy earth, head tilted back to soak in the light. She ought to smile at him and call him “angel.”

The thought of that nickname brought tears to Aziraphale’s eyes. He let them fall. He knew his mother would wipe them away with her fingers, if she were there. She would not scold him.

Gabriel did, though. His fingers dug deeper into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’re embarrassing me.”

Aziraphale glared up at him. His features were handsome, but loud. “I am crying at my mother’s funeral. I hardly see how that is an embarrassment to anyone.” His voice was cold, despite the lump in his throat.

Gabriel’s like curled. “You are weak, Aziraphale. I think you should go. Don’t come back until you can control your emotions.”

Azirapahle did not reply. He began to move away from his father, but the grip on his shoulder tightened again. “What, Gabriel?” He tried to suppress the hatred in his voice, but he didn’t try very hard.

“Speak to the next person you meet with a little more civility. Wouldn’t want any of these courtiers thinking you were unrefined, now would you?”

Aziraphale shook his head mutely, and squirmed away. He did not, in fact, care if anyone thought less of him for being angry on the day his mother’s funeral. They were packing his mother away in box, for God’s sake.

But he knew he would be more polite. Because of his curse. His father might have been unaware, but Aziraphale was nothing if not obedient. He would be a perfect model of civility, the sort of son who would make any father proud. Because the curse would make him, and because that was how his mother raised him. His mother.

Aziraphale rushed out from the funeral. The cemetery was next to the old castle, and Aziraphale made his way to the overgrown orchard. No one would bother him there.

He made his way to the majestic old apple tree, the one whose fairy-like blossoms he had prayed to only weeks before. The blossoms had fallen, and their rotting petals littered the dirt. Aziraphale sank to the ground, and brought a handful of them to his nose.

They smelled sickly-sweet, like grapes begun to ferment. Not yet wine, but not a firm grape anymore either. The petals had once been pure and sweet, full of life on the branches of their home. They were beautiful still, but dead. So very dead.

Aziraphale reached inside his memory for the scent of his mother. It had been like springtime, he remembered. Like a fresh stream in a forest. Like a blossoming flower. But all he could smell were the rotting petals he still clutched to his face. He dropped the handful in disgust.

Everyone had told him they were sorry for his loss. They assured him that his mother would live on in his remembrances. But they were lying. How could his pale thoughts compare to the breathing woman he missed like a limb? She would never again advise him, help him separate wrong from right. She would never again smile at him, her eyes assuring him that he was enough, that she loved him, that he was not making a mistake.

Aziraphale was crying in earnest now. He knew his eyes must be growing red. His mourning suit was stained from kneeling in the earth and petals. All he wanted was comfort. He wanted someone to tell him that there would be good in the world again. That was all he needed. He could go on, if he had the knowledge that everything was working according to some plan. But what plan would dare take his mother from him?

Minutes went by as he cried. Eventually, the tears stopped coming. His face dried, but he kept kneeling in the dirt. He felt empty. He felt alone.

He crawled towards the tree. He pressed his back to the living wood, imaging it was his mother that held him. He stayed that way a while, eyes squeezed shut against the world.

When he opened them, he saw a figure making its way through the orchard, towards him. Their gait was lithe and graceful, if slightly uncoordinated. Aziraphale recognized the red crest of the royal family on their left epaulet. The Crown Prince Anthony, then. Aziraphale hadn’t known he was at the funeral.

Aziraphale felt a slight nagging, worming its way through his mind, reminding him of Gabriel’s order. “Speak to the next person you meet with a little more civility.” Aziraphale didn’t think he was visible, snuggled as he was against the tree bark. Well, he couldn’t be impolite if a conversation never occurred. Yes, that would suit him just fine.

Anthony swaggered through the orchard. It really was a very odd gait, Aziraphale decided. If there had been anyone around to watch him, Aziraphale might have called it strutting, but why would the prince strut through an empty orchard?

These idle ruminations were replaced by nervousness as Anthony continued towards Aziraphale. Had he actually seen him? It would be terribly unsuitable to greet a prince covered in dirt, but Aziraphale did not want to get up. He was quite attached to this particular crying spot, now that he had shed so many tears there.

But no, the prince seemed not to have spotted him. He stopped at a tree a few yards a way, and leaned heavily against its trunk, forehead pressed into the bark. Abruptly, he spoke. “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

Aziraphale started. Had the prince seen him after all? He tried to ignore the statement, but his curse wiggled inside his skull, pointing out that is was rude not to respond in a conversation. Eventually, he caved. “Pardon?” he called.

Anthony jolted. He had evidently been talking to himself. He didn’t turn his face from his tree, though, and after he regained his footing, he drawled “I said, ‘That went down like a lead balloon.’” His voice was louder and cockier the second time around. Aziraphale decided he did not much like the man.

Then the prince turned to face him, and though his features were briefly molded into a confident smirk, that expression was quickly chased away by one of horror. “Oh! Fuck!” he said. “It’s… shit, it’s you. Aziraphale. Her son. I’m so sorry. For your loss. I thought you were someone else. Of course, I meant no disrespect, it was a lovely funeral, only…” 

Aziraphale was struck by the prince’s features. He had bright auburn hair which fell in waves to his shoulders, and prominent cheekbones. His eyes were obscured by dark glasses, but his face was otherwise expressive of utter mortification.

“No need to apologize, dear boy.” Aziraphale said. Which was technically polite. Sort of. Was it impolite to call a prince ‘dear boy?’ Aziraphale’s curse was evidently unsure, because it let him be. He definitely needed to stand up, though, if he wanted that to continue.

Slowly, he picked himself up. The grief which had poured from him in torrents so recently left his limbs numb and heavy. He used the tree to help guide himself upwards.

“Oh! Don’t stand up!” Anthony called. Aziraphale fell back to the ground, landing hard on his rear. Damn curse. The prince looked startled. “I mean, on my account. Don’t stand up on my account. I’m intruding on your mourning. I… I should just go.”

The force which temporarily held Aziraphale to the ground abated. He picked himself up, and brushed off his pants. People very rarely amended their orders when they saw them obeyed. That was interesting. Definitely interesting. “Don’t worry, your highness,” he said, finding he wanted to make a good impression, “I ought to be getting back anyway. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

The prince ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, yes. The funeral just broke up. You’ll be leaving with Sir Gabriel, I suppose?”

“Well, he his my father, your highness” Aziraphale replied, with a hint of amusement. But that amusement died quickly. A father was supposed to love and care for you. Aziraphale had not seen his for more than a week in all twenty years of his life. Something possessed him to continue. “But I’m actually more worried about Madame Tracy. She’ll be going mad, wondering what happened to me.”

“Madame Tracy,” Anthony said. “She’s your cook, yes?”

Aziraphale nodded, startled. “How did you know?”

“She and my cook and friends. I’ve heard all about you, through her.” The prince shot Aziraphale a smile. It was a nice smile, if a bit pointy.

“I can’t say the same, Prince Anthony,” Aziraphale replied. Tracy had never mentioned knowing the royal chef to Aziraphale. He was already preparing to scold and press her for details when he got home.

“Crowley,” he said. “Call me Crowley. Only people I hate call me Anthony.”

“Very well, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He chewed at his lower lip, pondering something. “When you mentioned balloons, earlier…”

Crowley looked abashed. “Lead ones, yeah?”

“What were you talking about?”

“Oh, um.” Crowley shifted his weight from foot to foot. Aziraphale strongly suspected it was a signal of nerves, though judging by Crowley’s usual gait it was hard to tell. “Sir Gabriel got a little angry at the end of the funeral reception. There was a bit of a shouting match.”

Aziraphale stiffened. “Who was he shouting at?”

Crowley looked at his hands. “Beez,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, bees? Gabriel was shouting at insects?” Aziraphale had known his father was a less-than-pleasant person, but that seemed truly unhinged.

Crowley’s facial features jolted. “Oh! No, nonono. Um, Ruler Beelzebub. My parent. Adopted parent. They were just making an appearance. Your mother did a lot of wonderful things, you know. But then Gabriel brought up something about … bureaucracy, I think? And then there was shouting. So I slithered off.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale chuckled. He had never met a person who described themself as “slithering” anywhere. But it made perfect sense when applied to the sauntering man in front off him. “Do you think they’re done shouting?” he asked the prince.

“Definitely,” Crowley said confidently. “Beez can only be annoyed for a few minutes before they just leave the situation. I’m sure they’re stewing in the throne room right this very minute.”

“I’d better get back, then.” Aziraphale said. He smiled at the prince. He wasn’t all that bad. A bit discombobulated, perhaps, but he seemed to mean well.

“Let me walk you,” Crowley said. It was probably a question. Maybe. Aziraphale’s curse was evidently not taking any chances, because he nodded. At least, he told himself that it was the curse that made him so eager to agree.

“Of course, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He would have used ‘your highness,’ but he couldn’t disobey the man’s earlier command. “I am curious what you’ve heard about me. Flattering things, I hope?”

Crowley grinned at Aziraphale, and the expression had a decidedly demonic air about it. “Is anything else possible? Do you have any dark secrets you’re hiding?”

The pair began to walk out of the cemetery. Aziraphale’s stride felt natural next to the taller man’s. “None that Tracy doesn’t know about, unfortunately.”

Crowley smirked. “Well, I know that you love music. And food. And reading. You have a miniature library housed in your room. So many books that you can’t sleep in your bed.” He spread his arms expressively. “And you try to cook, but it never turns out well.”

Aziraphale pretended to give an affronted sniff. “Tracy sabotages me. Lesley says I have a real talent, but my skills are squandered here.”

“Lesley?” Crowley asked. He looked genuinely interested. At least Aziraphale thought he did. It was hard to tell with his sunglasses still on. Perhaps he was simply humoring Aziraphale, and was bored out of his mind. Aziraphale knew he wasn’t particularly interesting. He wrung his hands nervously instead of answering.

“Is Lesley your friend?” Crowley asked, trying again.

“Oh, yes. And the manservant, I suppose. But he has a fairly nuanced palate; he grew up in Eden.”

Something clouded Crowley’s face. “Probably just buttering you up,” he muttered.

“Why on earth would he do that?” Aziraphale asked, perplexed.

Crowley shook his head. “Never mind. I’m sure Lesley is a nice fellow.” He was silent for a moment. They rounded the corner of a dilapidated wall. The cemetery came into view. Crowley had been right; Ruler Beelzebub was nowhere to be seen. Gabriel was talking to another courtier, obsequious smile firmly in place. Aziraphale caught Crowley scowling at Gabriel out of the corner of his eye.

“Well,” the prince said. “I guess this is goodbye? And I really can’t tell you how sorry I am about your mother. I met her once, as a child. She seemed like she was everything you could ever wish for in a mother. Like she really loved everyone she met.” He was doing the shifting thing, obviously unsure if his words were helpful.

Aziraphale wished, again, he could see the prince’s eyes. Even without them visible, though, the prince was clearly genuine in his regret.

“Thank you—”Aziraphale went to call the prince ‘your highness,’ but the curse deadened his tongue. “Crowley.”

Crowley nodded awkwardly, and offered Aziraphale his arm. Surprised at his gallantry, Aziraphale allowed himself to be escorted towards his father’s carriage.

Halfway there, an all-too-familiar voice hailed them. “Aziraphale! You’re finally done crying?”

Aziraphale stiffened. He did not reply. His father bounded over to join them. The trio reached the carriage.

“Your highness,” Gabriel said, scraping an obsequious bow. “Thank you so much for escorting my son. He was a bit addled by the emotions of the day. I hope he was polite to you.”

“Quite a paragon of manners, Sir Gabriel,” Crowley responded, voice dripping with an emotion Aziraphale couldn’t quite place.

“A little angel, huh?” Gabriel asked, distractedly. He opened the door to the carriage. “Well, get in, angel.”

Aziraphale faltered back a step. He felt his curse drawing him forward, but stronger than even that was the feeling of hatred welling in his gut. How dare he? This man, who had been absent for so long, now returned and presumed to know him? His voice came out hard and detached. “I am not your angel. I am Aziraphale, the son of my mother. You are Sir Gabriel, a travelling knight. That is all.”

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s fingers gently digging into his arm. The pressure felt good. The power of his curse was building, and he needed something to focus on.

“Very well, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, expressionlessly. He climbed into the carriage without helping his son up.

The curse still tugged Aziraphale forward, more insistently than ever. He succumbed. He was grateful to Crowley for guiding him forward. He felt unsteady on his feet, though whether that was from standing up to his father or to his curse, he did not know.

Aziraphale pulled the carriage door shut behind him, fully prepared to stare stoically at the blue wall opposite him for the duration of the journey, when he heard a ripping noise. He looked down. His pant leg was now missing a long swath of fabric, starting from just above his knee, and trailing down to the hem. He looked out the window. He could see that very strip, caught in the door. Great. The last thing he needed was Lesley scolding him about ruining his clothes.

The carriage began to drive. Aziraphale prepared himself to sulk, but then he glanced out the window. Standing there, laughing heartily, was Crowley. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and Aziraphale could just barely make out the color of his eyes. They were golden. Aziraphale smiled.

Unfortunately, Gabriel ruined the moment. “You seemed awfully close with Prince Anthony today.”

“He met mother, once. He liked her.”

Gabriel was silent for a moment. His face was impassive. Then he spoke, voice devoid of any emotion. “Your mother was everything a wife should be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! I really hoped you enjoyed! by the way, if you have not read the book Ella Enchanted, I highly recommend it. I know there is a movie, but the book is quite different.
> 
> also, I apologize if the characters are not particularly british. i myself am an american (don't worry we hate us too), and I just sort of gave up. I'm a little nervous to introduce shadwell, because he definitely has An Accent.
> 
> also, question! the book Ella Enchanted is thirty chapters long (counting the epilogue) and I plan to follow the plot pretty closely. the book is only about 50,000 words, and I used some Quick Maths to determine that my story is going to be .... longer. SO! Do you think it would be better if i posted shorter chapters regularly, or if i stuck to the thirty chapters thing, but sometimes went a while between updating? i definitely don't know, so please let me know in the comments.
> 
> also i love you all. i didn't realize how amazing comments and kudos felt until i posted the first chapter, and now i am absolutely addicted.


	3. Tracy Really Should Have Said Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale meets Dame Dagon and her sons, the charming Hastur and Ligur. The experience is not fun for anyone. Aziraphale also makes an important discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyyyy it's been a while. i had a final to write, and yeah. so anyway. i'm back. enjoy the chapter

When the carriage arrived at the house, Gabriel sent Aziraphale up to his room to change. His funeral attire had become muddy, covered in the dirt and flower petals which surrounded the tree. Not to mention the long tear in his pant leg.

“Change into something clean,” he said, “and hurry down to greet the guests.” Aziraphale could not pretend to understand why Gabriel felt the need to hold a party the very day of his wife’s funeral. It probably had something to do with making a good impression on the various courtiers that Aziraphale’s mother had known well. Aziraphale would have loved to absent himself, but now that he had been ordered to return, there was no hope of that.

As Aziraphale climbed the staircase to his room, he wondered what would happen if his father learned of his curse. Would he help Aziraphale manage it, help him find the fairy Newton and overcome it entirely? Perhaps. But Aziraphale thought it was far more likely that he would exploit it. A perfectly obedient son would just be too golden of an opportunity to ignore.

Most of what Aziraphale knew of his father did not come from their infrequent interactions. In fact, it was his father’s absence that had taught him all he needed to know. What sort of a man would marry a woman as good as his mother, and then leave her in favor of traversing the kingdoms in search of wealth and power? Not a good one, that was for sure.

It was not only Garbiel’s absence that made Aziraphale wary. It was also what people said about him. For the most part, Tracy tried to avoid bringing up the man at all. It made Aziraphale’s mother unhappy to hear of him, so the subject was rarely discussed. But sometimes, when she thought it was just her and Maud, Tracy vented her full feelings.

Occasionally, this happened when Aziraphale was in earshot. He still remembered one such conversation vividly.

———————————————————————

He had been heading to the kitchen to beg Tracy for a snack, when he had heard Maud’s voice from behind the closed door. He wasn’t quite sure what made him pause and listen, but it was probably the surreptitious tone to Maud’s voice, as though she were a spy having a clandestine meeting in a park somewhere.

“I just don’t understand how anyone could treat Lady like that,” she was saying. All the servants called Aziraphale’s mother ‘Lady,’ even behind her back. Gabriel was afforded no such respect.

Aziraphale heard Tracy tut in sympathy, but she said nothing.

“How did they ever come to be married in the first place? He can’t love her, and she isn’t foolish. She must see it,” Maud continued.

“I don’t know, dear,” Tracy said. “I really don’t know. But I do think that Gabriel loves her, in his own way.”

Aziraphale could practically see Maud’s shocked face in the ensuing silence, doubtless mirroring his own expression.

Tracy made some strange, chortling-growl noise. It sounded like fury barely repressed, disguised as mirth. “I only mean that he would never have married anyone else. He knows a finer woman does not exist, and he would not settle for less than the best. How else could he hope to gain the power and respect he hunts for so ferociously?”

Maud made her own noise, one of strangled assent and revulsion. “I almost can’t believe that he’s human. He seems more like a goblin. Do you think he’s just masquerading as human?”

Tracy gave a dry chuckle. “No, dearie. There’s no way that Sir Gabriel is anything but human. No member of another species could be so cold and calculating, so empty inside.”

Aziraphale had slipped away from the kitchen door upon hearing that. He didn’t like it when people talked about his father. He didn’t like to be reminded that he was expected to turn out that way. Perhaps Tracy was wrong about his father. Perhaps he really had a heart.

———————————————————————

Standing on the staircase, though, knowing he would have to suffer through a reception full of influential, uncaring people simply because it would help Gabriel’s political standing, Aziraphale knew that Tracy had been right, all those years ago. Gabriel really was that terrible. He really was the epitome of humanity.

But no, Aziraphale refused to believe that. People were not fundamentally evil. Yes, they could be, but he would not dishonor his mother’s memory be presuming them all to be so. There might be guests at this reception who genuinely missed his mother. He was determined to give them the benefit of the doubt.

With this new resolve planted firmly in his mind, Aziraphale allowed his curse to drag him the rest of the way to his room.

Once there, he flopped on his bed. He tried to ignore the incessant tug at the base of his head, telling him to  _ hurry, hurry and return downstairs _ . He felt his stomach begin to roil, and he clutched the sheets of the bed, as though that would make the room stop spinning. The pain mounted in his head, until it was unbearable.

When he could not tolerate another single second, he sat up. Instantly, the sensations which had been flooding him receded. He knew he was foolish for baiting the curse like this, refusing to obey, but he could not help it. It was horrible to know that whatever Gabriel told him to do, he would do. Could he really be blamed for trying to put it off?

With a sigh, he stood and removed his soiled, torn clothing. He crossed the floor of his room and perused his wardrobe. He knew that Gabriel would expect him to appear in an elegant suit, its cut similar to the style he favored himself. Probably all black, with crisp creases and minimal fuss. Aziraphale had a suit that would just fit the bill. Gabriel had given it to him for his seventeenth birthday.

Aziraphale hated the suit. He did not want to put it on. Instead, his eyes strayed to the clothes he preferred, the clothes his mother had smiled to see him in. Soft shirts and jackets; old, but well made fabrics. He could just picture the happy lilt of her laugh as he struggled to wrangle a new bow tie.

With that memory, his mind was made up. He would change, because Gabriel had commanded him to. He would attend this party, because Gabriel had ordered him to. But he would dress as he wished. He would not be changed by this man who sought to change him.

He put on a creamy shirt, with a dark brown waistcoat and overcoat. He adjusted all of his clothing to perfection, then set about selecting his bow tie. His fingers fluttered across his collection, before stopping on a blue one, the color of the sky on spring mornings. His mother had always told him it was her favorite of his ties, because it brought out the color of his eyes.

Yes, he would wear this bow tie. He would wear it to honor his mother, Gabriel and his fashion sense be damned. Aziraphale tied it as carefully as the curse curling in his fingers would allow.  _ Hurry, hurry. _

He gave himself one critical appraisal in the mirror. He was not handsome, he knew. He was not particularly interesting to look at, even. He thought his features to be indistinct and vague, as though he would easily disappear into the background of any event. But he did not care. This clothing was what made him happy. Any attempt to change would suit him ill, he knew. This was simply who he was. And Gabriel would have to learn to deal with it.

———————————————————————

Aziraphale almost regretted his decisions when he saw the way Gabriel’s lip curled downwards at the sight of him. But no, Aziraphale chided himself, that was wrong. Gabriel had no right to change how Aziraphale perceived himself. He had no right to hold any sway in his son’s heart. With stoic resolve, Aziraphale ignored the look.

When he reached the bottom of the sweeping staircase, he was deposited in a party already in full swing. It was a relatively somber party, but a party nonetheless. Aziraphale tried to ignore the twisting in his gut that told him this was wrong, his mother didn’t want her death to be commemorated in this way.

Before Aziraphale could slip off to some alcove to wait out the guests, Gabriel was at his elbow. Aziraphale avoided eye contact with him. It was going to be very difficult to adjust to having him around. Aziraphale hoped he would leave to go traveling again soon.

Abruptly, Aziraphale was swept into a hug. For a moment, he thought it was Gabriel hugging him, but that couldn’t be right. His father was not a particularly huggable man, and would not initiate such an action under any circumstances. It must be someone else. Unfortunately, Aziraphale was pressed too firmly into the person’s chest to figure out who they were.

The person began to coo loudly into his ear. “Oh, you poor dear! Losing your mother like that, it must be a great blow. You can’t imagine how sorry I am.” The statement was accompanied by an exaggerated sniff which clearly conveyed an utter lack of sorrow.

After a moment, he was released, and he gratefully gulped the air he had been deprived. He surveyed his attacker. His first impression was the eye makeup, which was reasonable, considering there was a lot of it. Silver, and very incandescent, it spread almost across the cheeks of the person in front of him. The overall effect was one of intimidation, like a dragon with metallic scales was leering down at him. Aziraphale shrank back a little bit.

Gabriel clapped a hand on his back. “This is Dame Dagon,” he boomed. “She and her lovely sons are here to offer their condolences.” Dame Dagon smiled simperingly at his words. Aziraphale decided she almost rivaled Gabriel in insincerity.

“This is Hastur,” Dame Dagon said, gesturing at a lanky figure who stepped from behind her, where he has been lurking. “My eldest.”

Hastur’s clothes were in a strange state of disrepair. They were simultaneously very expensive, very dirty, and very torn, without giving off the impression that anything had ever been done in them. It was as though the man had bought them like that. His face, too, was dirty while seeming to have never been dirtied. It had simply always been like that.

Hastur smiled at Aziraphale, though it was hard to tell. It resembled a sneer more than anything. His teeth were very sharp. Aziraphale stuck out his hand all the same. “How do you do?” he asked, politely.

Hastur’s grip was painfully firm. “Fine. How about you?” The words themselves were polite enough, if a bit terse, but the tone was not. Hastur’s voice was low and guttural, and it seemed as though he had actually said ‘Well, it’s not my mother who’s just died, is it?’

Aziraphale made a non-committal nod in response.

“And this is Ligur,” Dame Dagon said. Another man stepped from behind her. Aziraphale was beginning to think that lurking was a family occupation.

Ligur was shorter than his brother, but his clothes were in a similar state of intentional ruin. It was unnerving. Aziraphale offered him his hand, and tried to ignore the slightly greasy sensation he felt when Ligur shook it.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, “Dame Dagon and I would like to have a conversation. We thought you and Hastur and Ligur would be great friends. Show them around.”

Aziraphale bristled at the command, and at the implication that he was a child to be swept out of the way at Gabriel’s whims. He was lucky, he supposed, that he hadn’t been _ordered_ to be friends with the lurkers in front of him. Aziraphale had a strong feeling that those particular friendships would not be ones he would willingly choose.

“I’d be delighted, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said. His voice made it very clear that he was far from delighted, but no one seemed to care. Dame Dagon beamed at him, in what was supposed to be a matronly way, and Gabriel clapped him on the back. Again. Perhaps getting away from him would not be so bad.

———————————————————————

Aziraphale quickly came to realize he had been wrong. It  _ was _ so bad _.  _ He had first taken the brothers to the ballroom, hoping they would be suitably impressed and cease their futile attempts to make conversation. It was pathetic, really, the things they were saying. Aziraphale could only hope that they weren’t putting forth much effort.

Hastur seemed to be the more vocal of the pair, and his remarks were more appropriate. On the surface. “It was truly dreadful,” he said, “the way you started to cry this afternoon. Your tears hurt my heart.” His tone implied that, in actuality, Aziraphale’s outburst had done no more than wound his eardrums.

Ligur was much worse. Aziraphale surmised that he was the younger one, though it was hard to say. He was certainly the dumber one, Aziraphale concluded in a particularly uncharitable moment. To be fair, Ligur was not making it easy to be charitable.

“You’re not wearing mourning clothes,” Ligur had said. The comment had irked Aziraphale especially because he had been in the middle of an explanation of the beautiful stained glass window that soared above their head. He made no move to respond to the comment. Unfortunately, Ligur took that as an incentive to continue speaking.

“Sir Gabriel is very rich,” he said, and Aziraphale nearly experienced whiplash from the non-sequitur. Was he supposed to reply to that? Was it an accusation? Aziraphale decided it was best to simply nod politely, and pretend he was discussing the weather.

Hastur leaned over and hissed something to his brother. A look of confusion crossed over Ligur’s face, though Aziraphale almost didn’t notice the change. The shorter brother’s brow was perpetually wrinkled, as though he was grappling with some great puzzle whose solution was alluding him.

Aziraphale suddenly wished that he was drunk. It was not something he often longed for, but really, this was too much. Unfortunately, Lesley and his tray of drinks were nowhere in sight. Aziraphale felt incredibly prickly and dry all over, as though he might catch fire at any moment.

“What he means,” Hastur said, though Aziraphale’s thoughts had already moved on, “is that this is a beautiful ballroom. Like something out of a palace. That window must have cost much of your mother’s dowry.”

Aziraphale nearly sputtered some sort of protest at the blatant insensitivity of Hastur’s statement. He managed to catch the noise in his chest, and so it only came out as a kind of strangled half-growl.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, preparing to say something, anything, that might bring this tour to an end. Unfortunately, Hastur seemed not to be done with what he was saying. “Some day, I’m going to live in a palace.” The way he said the sentence, it came across not as naive bragging, but as a threat. Aziraphale shuddered on behalf of anyone who currently owned a palace, and might be finding their living situation renegotiated to suit Hastur.

_ Crowley _ , Aziraphale realized. Crowley lived in a palace. He would one day be king, even. Perhaps he would have a consort, someone to share the palace with. For a second, Aziraphale imagined that consort to be Hastur, who would glory in his power and wealth. The thought made Aziraphale a little bit sick. Crowley, he decided, deserved much better. He would have to warn Crowley not to marry Hastur- but no, Crowley would not be foolish enough to do that in the first place.

“How about we go to the library?” Aziraphale suggested. His companions nodded in mute assent. Maybe they were interested in books, Aziraphale thought. Then he thought again, and did not hold much hope.

True to his predictions, the brothers barely listened to his explanations of the extensive library. They glanced around the room with hungry, appraising looks in their eyes. Aziraphale felt like squirming when Hastur turned that gaze on him.

“There are a lot of windows in this room,” he said.

Aziraphale nodded in confusion. “And books,” he added. The books were the point of the room, after all.

Hastur shrugged. “But the windows, there are at least twelve of them. And they’re tall, so lots of glass. Do you have windows like this in every room?”

Aziraphale really did not know what to say. “I’m not quite sure,” he answered.

“Show us the rest of the manor, then,” Hastur commanded.

Aziraphale did, miserably. He showed them the guest bedrooms and his father’s study. He took them to the bathrooms and the linen closets. He kept hoping they would grow bored, and demand to return to the party, but they didn’t. Perhaps boredom could only happen to people who had interesting thoughts normally. Maybe if your head was always empty and vapid, you couldn’t get bored.

As Aziraphale reached the door of his bedroom, he let out a sigh. Better get this over with. Besides, he hadn’t occupied this bedroom with any real regularity until the return of his father, so it would be fine. At least, he told himself it would be fine. That did not change the fact that he really did not want these greasy strangers in his room, but nothing could be done.

He hustled them through the room as quickly as possible. (“This is my room, my bed, my wardrobe, my fireplace. Look, only two windows. Best be getting on.”) Unfortunately, they demanded to see his mother’s room next. Aziraphale grit his teeth and got it over with. He forced himself to look away as Hastur ran his hands over his mother’s clothing, as Ligur fumbled with her jewelry. He could ignore, he could ignore. Everything would be fine. They would be gone soon, and he would be fine.

But then Ligur began to dig through the pile of books on his mother’s nightstand. Those were her favorite books, ones she loved and read to Aziraphale when he was younger, and Ligur was shoving them roughly onto the bed.

“Let’s go to the food!” Aziraphale blurted. He needed to get these men away from his mother’s bedroom by any means necessary. “Madame Tracy is a delightful chef.”

The brothers allowed themselves to be led downstairs, and Aziraphale released a sigh of relief. All he had to do was cross the ballroom to the banquet table, and he could slip away. They could eat as much as they wanted, and he could find an alcove to hide in.

Aziraphale had almost made it across the room with the brothers in tow when he was stopped by Gabriel.  _ Why _ , Aziraphale wondered _ , is this man always getting in my way? _

“Aziraphale!” he said, with a healthy dose of fake enthusiasm. “Have you finished your tour?”

Aziraphale nodded, tiredly. This day seemed as though it would never end.

“And what did you boys think?” Dame Dagon appeared from behind Gabriel.  _ What the hell _ , Aziraphale wondered, _ is it with that family and lurking? _

“At least fifty-three windows, Mother,” Hastur announced. “Probably a few trunk-fulls of brass KJs went into the stained glass in the library.”

Aziraphale did not understand Hastur’s preoccupation with windows. He didn’t feel like thinking about it very hard.

“Sir Gabriel is very rich,” Dame Dagon cooed.

“And there were lots of books and a fireplace in every room,” Hastur continued. Aziraphale felt quite awkward.

“I like money,” Ligur added.

Though Aziraphale was loath to admit having anything at all in common with his father, he had to admit that Gabriel looked equally uncomfortable with the conversation. “Aziraphale, go to the buffet with Hastur and Ligur,” he said.

Aziraphale didn’t know if he was so grateful to escape, but he did as he was bid. Obviously.

“These quail eggs are Madame Tracy’s specialty,” he explained, as he walked the brothers past the tables groaning with food. “She uses a secret blend of spices, and I can assure you, they are heavenly.” The smells mingling in the air were making Aziraphale significantly happier. Tracy was a culinary genius.

“Quail eggs are very expensive,” Ligur observed.

Hastur nodded, and looked at the pile appraisingly. “I bet they cost a handful of gold KJs.”

Aziraphale ignored them. He got himself a plate, and began to load it up with little bits of the delectable food that surrounded him. He saw the brothers trailing after him, but food was far more important than their awkward conversations about money.

Aziraphale sat at a small table, and began to eat. He started with an oyster, and it was as good as he had expected. Better, probably, even though he had grown up on Tracy’s cooking. There was something demonic, or maybe ethereal, in her ability in the kitchen. Her food was unparalleled. Aziraphale nibbled a piece of bread, flavored with garlic and chives, and he was about to let out a moan of contentment when Hastur sat down across from him. He stifled the noise.

Aziraphale tried to concentrate on his food, but it was impossible. Hastur and Ligur ate as though they  _ had _ to. It was a mechanical process, devoid of enjoyment. Aziraphale watched as Hastur lifted a quail egg to his mouth, chewed it, and swallowed it. His eyes were completely blank, as though he was not eating a masterpiece of cuisine. Ligur was worse. He held the plate inches from his face, and shoveled the food as though it were gravel and his mouth was a construction site.

Aziraphale felt his appetite diminish. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and cast his eyes about for something to look at. He did not want to see Hastur and Ligur eat, but he also did not want to make eye contact with some courtier on the dance floor, who would fake regret in the name of his mother’s memory. At least Hastur and Ligur were straightforward in their lack of grief.

Aziraphale’s gaze rested on the embroidered rug beneath the table. It had been a favorite of his mother’s, and the familiarity of its colors was relaxing. It was a green, vibrant garden, with two figures standing beside a tree. Vines and ferns grew lush and thick surrounding them, and Aziraphale felt as though he could sink into that garden, as though it would be warm and humid and sweet-smelling. He relaxed.

And then something moved in the garden. Aziraphale jolted in his seat, eyes fixed on the tree. A snake was curling around one of the branches. A snake which had not been there before. A black and red snake, which seemed to smirk out of the fabric, up at him. He stared back.

Aziraphale swore he could hear,  _ actually hear _ , the smooth slide of scales on bark, the rustle of leaves, and the laughter of the humans in the scene. The snake stuck its tongue out, still staring cheekily at Aziraphale. How on earth was this happening? Rugs didn’t do this!

Aziraphale blinked. The scene continued to move. He could feel the damp humidity of the garden, could make out the voices of the humans. He blinked again, but nothing changed.

“What are you looking at?” demanded Ligur. Aziraphale looked up. The brothers had finished eating and were staring at him.

“Nothing. Just the rug.” And when Aziraphale glanced back down, it was just a rug. The snake was gone. The ferns did not wave in the wind.

“Your eyes were popping out,” Ligur informed him. “You looked like an ogre.”

“They were bulging out of your face. They looked buggy. You look normal now,” Hastur assured him.

Aziraphale regarded his companions. He didn’t think they ever looked normal. Ligur had an expression of permanent confusion and thoughtlessness. Hastur looked simpering and cruel. “I suppose your eyes never bug out,” Aziraphale offered.

Hastur gave him a condescending smile. “No, I don’t think they do.”

“They’re really too small to bug out of your face,” Aziraphale muttered. More loudly than was probably wise or polite, but he had had a bad day.

Hastur's smile froze on his face. If it had been fake before, it was a terrible forgery now. “We will forgive you, Aziraphale. The absence of Sir Gabriel in your upbringing has made you notoriously ill-mannered. And you are grieving. You are forgiven.”

Aziraphale wanted to tell Hastur that he could take his forgiveness and shove it — but no, that would only serve to further their impression of him as impolite. Aziraphale cast around for something sufficiently grateful to say, but he was spared the indignity of voicing it by Dame Dagon.

She approached the table, and Aziraphale was stuck again by the silver around her eyes. “Dears,” she called. Aziraphale wanted to inform her that her children were not  _ dear _ in any sense of the word. “It is time for us to be taking our leave. Sir Gabriel’s hospitality has been most generous, but we really must be going.”

To Aziraphale’s immense relief, the brothers stood without complaint. The party was dispersing, and every minute a couple people left. Aziraphale watched as Dame Dagon, Hastur, and Ligur walked across the ballroom floor, and out one of the doorways. He could make out Gabriel standing there, doubtless making obsequious farewells.

Aziraphale left the party, and headed to the kitchens. He wanted to see Tracy, to forget about the awful party. He found her standing in front of the sink, a mountain of dirty dishes before her.

“Shall I help?” he asked.

“Oh, no dearie. I have it under control. I bet you’re exhausted.” She smiled at him, and Aziraphale felt quite a bit better. He nodded. He was tired. He sat down at the table Tracy took her tea at.

“Are you hungry, love?” she asked.

“A bit,” Aziraphale admitted. He hadn’t eaten much at the buffet. “Hastur and Ligur didn’t appreciate your food much.”

She sniffed. “That’s because they have no taste whatsoever. You know how good my cooking is.”

Aziraphale nodded. He did. When Tracy cooked, the food came out heavenly. Even if you followed the same recipe, and used the same ingredients, your food would never be as good as hers. Aziraphale knew this because he had tried on a number of occasions.

“Well, I can prepare you something now,” she said. “The guests ate all of the quail eggs, I’m afraid. I know those are your favorite.”

The mention of quail eggs reminded Aziraphale of the rug and the snake. “You know the carpet, with the garden on it?”

Tracy nodded and hummed, bustling about the kitchen.

“Well, I was looking at it earlier, and something odd happened.”

Tracy made a noise of dismissal. “Oh, you shouldn’t pay any attention to that silly old carpet.” She put a pot of something on the stove.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s just a fairy joke.”

Aziraphale startled, and sat up even straighter in his chair. A fairy rug! “How do you know?” he asked.

“It belonged to Lady. She loved the way the flowers smelled.”

That didn’t explain how Aziraphale’s mother came to have a fairy rug. “Did my fairy godmother give it to her?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes,” Tracy said. She sprinkled something into the pot. “A long time ago.”

“Did Mother tell you who my fairy godmother is?” Aziraphale needed to know. This fairy might be his only hope to defeat the curse. Now that his mother was gone, he had no one to protect him.

“No, she never told me. Do you know where Sir Gabriel is?”

That sounded to Aziraphale like she was trying to distract him. “He’s saying goodbye to Dame Dagon. Do you know anyway?”

“Know what, dear?”

That was definitely an attempt to avoid the subject. Aziraphale was nearly dying with curiosity. “Who my fairy godmother is. Even though Mother didn’t tell you.”

Tracy stopped stirring the pot, and looked at Aziraphale for a long moment. “If she wanted you to know, she would have told you.”

Aziraphale felt a small ribbon of guilt work its way under his rib cage, but he squashed it. “She was going to tell me. You know she was. My fairy godmother is my only hope. She promised to tell me. Please, Tracy. Please tell me.”

Tracy sighed. “I am.”

Aziraphale groaned. “You are  _ not  _ telling me. Who is it?”

Tracy looked away from him. She crossed the room and got a spoon out of a drawer. She sighed, again. Then she straightened her spine, and faced Aziraphale again. “Me. I am your fairy godmother. Now, taste this soup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a little sad because it's going to be a while before we see crowley again. he's super fun to write, but aziraphale is really the main character of this fic. anyway.
> 
> oooh! i learned how to post stuff that has italics in it! maybe i'm just technologically stunted, but i'm proud of me. i really missed them, before.
> 
> i hope you have a wonderful day, and that you enjoyed reading the insanity i am producing.


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